


Cautionary Tales for the Escaped Omega

by ShangriLad



Series: A Compendium of Monstrous Incubation [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Gaping, Aphrodisiacs, Bad Ending, Belly Kink, Bestiality, Bestiality (Horses), Body Horror, Body Modification, Bondage, Bondage and Discipline, Brainwashing, Branding, Breast formation, Breastfeeding, Breeding, Breeding farm, Bukkake, Come Inflation, Come Slut, Come as Lube, Conditioning, Continuous Pregnancy, Dehumanization, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in One Hole, Edging, Exhibitionism, Forced Orgasm, Forced Pregnancy, Gang Rape, Gangbang, Grooming, Human Furniture, Humiliation, Impregnation, Inflation, Knotting, Large Breasts, M/M, Male Lactation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mental Coercion, Milking, Mind Break, Mpreg, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Penetration, Nipple Torture, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Objectification, Omegas as Cows, Omorashi, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Denial, Other, Oviposition, Pheromones, Piercings, Praise Kink, Predicament Bondage, Public Humiliation, Public Sex, Sex Toys, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Slavery, Size Difference, Size Kink, Slime, Somnophilia, Sounding, Tentacle Rape, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, Unrealistic Sex, Urination, Verbal Humiliation, Violent Birth, Watersports, Werewolves, Wet & Messy, birth denial, multiple pregnancy, needleplay, painful birth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2019-09-17 02:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16965792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShangriLad/pseuds/ShangriLad
Summary: Omegas should know better than to scorn the safety and care of their masters, but alas, some don't. And look what they become.Intended as in-universe parables for a very fucked up fantasy world. Warnings for non-con and dehumanization apply throughout.Ch. 1: The Forest (multiple impregnation, monster rape, birth, birth denial)Ch. 2: The Dairy Farm (somnophilia, mindbreak, impregnation, milking, in that order)Ch. 3: The Stables (horse bestiality, human furniture, bondage, milking)Ch. 4: The Stadium (boot licking, public humiliation, branding) + Bonus (gang rape, prostitution)Ch. 5: The Brewery (inflation, milking, watersports) + Bonus (voyeurism, suggestions of incest)Ch. 6: The Atelier (muzzle, piercings, sensory deprivation, orgasm control)Ch. 7: The Gallery (more piercings, animal hybrids, public auction, puppeteering)Thank you to all readers who submitted suggestions. Requests are now [CLOSED].





	1. The Forest

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for stopping by. Before starting, please be warned that this story can be very intense. If there is anything I missed in setting up my warnings, I’d appreciate your help in letting me know.  
>   
> If you are here for characterization and plot, this is not the fic for you. If you prefer wholesome, empowering Alpha/Beta/Omega narratives, this is not that. This is the A/B/O setting taken to horrible extremes and set in a fantasy world where the perversion is enforced by magic, monsters, and backwards gender perspectives. Every chapter qualifies as a bad ending. If you choose to proceed, PLEASE pay attention to individual chapter warnings to avoid unpleasant surprises.  
>   
> Exploring kinks can be a perfectly healthy practice, but not without basic respect and the ability to tap out (i.e. safe words). This fic seeks to study, NOT promote, systematic violations of consent. The events within are strictly fantasy, and I do NOT support such acts in real life. Please have discretion while enjoying this content and maintain your respect for others’ rights. If you choose to create fictional content of a similar nature, please extend the courtesy of thorough content warnings.
> 
> Although terms like “boy” are used throughout, it is only to denote relative youth and NEVER to refer to anyone under the age of 18. That's one line I refuse to cross.
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> And if you just skipped past all that, you do so at your own risk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Heads-up for this chapter: monsters, gang bang, multiple impregnation, multiple _types_ of impregnation including oviposition and cock insertion, breast formation, messy birth, birth denial, some slut shaming near the end**

One remembers the tale of an omega slave that escapes but falls into heat before he can cross the monster-infested forests. Lured by rumors of a different world past the looming trees and unforgiving dark, he sneaks books into his designated place under the master’s office desk. Most are beyond his knowledge of business and worldly matters, but his heart rocks in his chest as he reads deep into the demonology texts. Summonings, contracts, promises for the price of a soul. Right there, under his owner’s desk, with his lips still stained by hours of usage, he draws his shaky ritual circle and begs for absolution. Give him a few years of freedom from his Alpha masters, and then he will gladly give up whatever the demon wished of him.  The demon unfurling from the smoke threads a gentle hand through his hair, offering a kind smile as it repeats the boy’s words back to him. To his ears, battered for so long with orders and variations on whore, slut, fuckhole, it sounds like salvation.

On the contracted day, he shoves himself and the barrel containing him over the side of a wagon, tumbling free as the wood splinters on impact. The bruises and wood chips are mere pinpricks as he runs, with growing excitement. It takes some practice to get used to his legs again, after so long on all fours or tucked away for storage, but he relishes even in the brambles bloodying his feet. Never thinking of the scented trail he left behind. The demon threatens to make an appetizer out of his pursuers, and after one victim, the rest turn back. It’s only for his own amusement that he snaps branches and illusions footsteps behind his true meal, to let that anguished scent perfume the night air. And fill the senses of every creature waking at this hour.

It takes but a single proactive vine to trip him, another to lash his hands to his ankles when he tries to untangle himself. He growls weakly-- as omegas do, despite their best efforts-- but his pulling only tightens his binds and distracts from the forest’s movements around him. Werewolf noses tip up at the scent of something, as bright and promising as the full moon above them. The dirt shifts as slimy things enjoying the damp hollows of soil sense prey worth hunting. Above it all, the demon whispers his guidance, conjuring breezes to carry that aroma of heat into nests and lairs all over.

Tens of monsters end up fighting over him, swarming every hole and wrestling for dominance as he trembles around them. He’s seated in the lap of a werewolf, with the knot locking in place not just the wolf’s own cock but a mass of slugs and different creatures’ tentacles. His cock is slowly stuffed with two kinds of slime, depositing eggs making the eggs and bloating them up so he’s plugged too tight to cum.

His nipples are suckled to painful, swollen nubs by all the smaller monsters who couldn’t get inside him but still wanted to mark their territory. Milk gushes out as everything else thrusts in, which leaves him running like a tap. After all, there’s always something pulsing up inside, nestling deep, twisting deeper. For every white-hot explosion of seed, there’s a steady pumping of eggs into his increasingly heavy womb. For every teeming clutch of eggs, there is the ribbed member of some snarling reptile catching the folds of his fragile insides. The tentacles squirm and fight for room alongside lumbering slugs, making visible bulges dance across the omega’s skin. But even he howls and shrieks for help, the load of cum and eggs rounding out his middle keep him pinned and secure, while his heat works its natural magic.

It means his hole drips, wet and eager, and expands for each egg. It softens him, opens him up, body clamped greedily around the tentacles, milking them for more. He’s stretched well beyond his limits, but the base part of him tells him to be flattered by the attention. He is fine breeding stock, and so many mates have deemed him fit for their young. When an ambitious slime loses its grip on his breasts, he instinctively lowers his chest to ground, grinding into its maw with his face in the dirt. What would his master think of him now, arching and writhing beautifully in this squelching mess of monsters?

The demon presides lazily as the orgy escalates, keeping the man’s mouth stuffed drooling around its thick cock. It’d watched the dark fear in the man’s eyes fade to empty resignation, barely reacting when the demon emptied its own load right down the man’s throat, so deep and so tightly plugged with cock that not even a moan could escape. As its aphrodisiac cum began to work through the man’s system, those eyes widened just for a second, a pretty sight above pink, tear-stained cheeks. It wasn’t much, just enough to keep the heat going even after the body was certain it was impregnated. There was still the rest of the forest, waiting their turns, and it wouldn’t do for the boy to lose his spark.

It took weeks. That tiny body was thrown in every position, invaded every which way, and occasional mouthfuls of demon seed kept him mindless and needy through it all. Some births happened while fresh eggs were being pumped into another hole; others through the same hole, with small hatchlings slithering out around the latest cock slamming into the battered, oozing mess. His slick, mixed with countless species’ cum, kept him slippery and spread open for any passing monster. His breasts made a public milk fountain, his cock a public nesting ground, his cripplingly huge tummy a public plaything. They smeared cum into every part of him, inside and out, while his body gorged itself on every monster it invited.

Eventually, the demon wanders away in boredom, and the boy awakens again, staring blearily then screaming at the sight of himself. Nipples bulging obscenely in the mouths of tiny werewolves, hanging by blunt claws on heavy, swinging tits. His belly dragging on the forest floor beyond that, alive and roiling with a mix of so many shapes. His cock thumps heavily on the unseen side of his tummy, jolted around by the larvae inside, with one squeezing out the tip just now. It falls out and lands with a splash, in a puddle of different colors and textures mixed together, all reeking of sex. A wet glob sits, snug at his swollen entrance, waiting for the internal pressure to push it out since his hole was fucked too loose to push it out properly.

His brief, startled attempt to escape ends with him realizing he can’t get up. Not after crawling for so long, and with such a belly. With so much unborn life inside him and recently born life clinging to his breasts, he moves slower than the laziest of slimes. The monsters let him roam freely through the forest, but only so they can fuck him full at their leisure. Every time he neared the edge of forest facing outward from his home nation, a little of this pollen and that goo muddled the directions in his head and steered him right back. In his tortured imagination, the forest was endless. The stories were lies. There was nothing beyond any of this, besides more monsters to emerge from the treeline and take their pleasure without a care for his screams.

His master finds him, one day, just stares down coldly as the omega lays before him, reaching up weakly and begging to be taken back. His voice breaks, too hoarse to even scream as the contractions tear through him. The very shape of him warps as the eggs hatch inside, and the man looks rightfully disgusted when fluid splashes between lopsided thighs. Thin, slimy tentacles slither out and slap onto his rim, his taint, whatever offers a gripping point to pull itself out. With a handkerchief over his nose, the master kicks the crowning monster back into the hole it came from, shoving until his shoe plugged the birth canal.

But when he tugs his foot free, the whole creature follows, emerging with a messy pop. It’s just enough for his poor cock to twitch back to life, answering the rough handling of his prostate. The omega tries to reach down and cover his arousal, but it is too late. Master had an eye for lack of discipline, and besides, there is no reaching around his gravid form. The malfunction further down remained helplessly exposed, and a boot nudging aside his belly bared everything for the Alpha's evaluation. And that's the end of it. Any chance for pity is dead and gone. If the filthy slut likes incubating monsters so much, then he is welcome to do just that.

The master, being a man of taste, leaves damaged goods to be damaged goods. The werewolves pass by soon after, rolling over the sobbing omega so they can go in order. From the leaders down to the fledglings, the oldest of the omega’s litters. They leave him, tits leaking, stomach squirming afresh, hole frothing so much that he could not tell what slick was his own. Eventually, another batch of larvae wriggle to life, crowding around the larger broods to slime his passage and worm their way out. The beginnings of exoskeleton tug painfully at his inner walls, and he screws his eyes shut, knowing already that when the contractions hit, it'll squeeze him tighter against them. But he screams when it happens anyways, and even with both hands over his mouth, the scent of omega in distress rouses every monster lurking nearby. Tall shadows loom over him as they descend upon him, soothing his pain as they always do. 

How could they possibly know that moans of pleasure did not erase the wrenching pain in his gut? That the sweet orgasm they coax out of him only tightens his passage and draws the process out for hours longer? They don't understand his delirious murmuring when the last of the hatchlings simply settle as they are, enjoying his internal warmth while orgasm rips through and scrambles all his senses. Between the healing magic of some sires and the dark arts of others, he has no doubt he'll survive even this.

“You asked me for years,” the demon says when it checks in later. It has other projects, but this one does beautiful things to its ego when those lips spill over with sobs and shameless begging. “I never break a contract, sweet boy. And besides, this lifestyle has done wonders for your figure.”

Helpful as ever, it conjures a mirror and helps the boy raise his chin, angling so that the moonlight leaves nothing obscured. A tired face stares back at him, eyes duller than the claws that raked appreciatively around them. The tears and drool not licked away by one of his cycling mates left tracks over ruddy cheeks, still warm with arousal despite all this horror.

Fresh tears well up as his gaze travelled lower, seeing the morbid growth of his torso. Breasts obscenely large to support the needs of countless growing litters, and his belly swollen beyond that with eggs padded in slime cushioning pups wriggling among slugs and other unmentionables. He could not see the state of his hole and his egg-swollen cock, but he could feel it clearly now, no matter how his various mates fucked him numb. Wide open, plump folds reddened by traffic both ways, oozing endlessly for lack of any strength left in the muscles. The slave-- that’s what he is, isn’t it?-- is thoroughly deformed, looking almost as monstrous as the creatures that did this to him.

Damaged goods, beyond repair.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Rewritten May 23, 2019)
> 
> I'm still rather new to this "disturbed parable" sort of writing style, but I hope it was still enjoyable for you.
> 
> If you have any ideas for future chapters, please do not hesitate to comment here or message me directly. I draw a personal line against scat (though not watersports) and death, but most other things are at least negotiable. Thank you in advance and good luck with the next chapters. It only gets more depraved from here.


	2. The Dairy Farm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Heads-up for this chapter: human livestock, size difference, targeted hazing, aphrodisiacs, conditioning/grooming, somnophilia, milking, gaslighting, praise kink, vivid description of mindbreak**
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> This chapter in particular is very bad about consent. Grooming people into sex objects is presented as a twisted positive according to the very unreliable narrator, but please don't let that be your moral takeaway here.
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> As always, the use of "boy" is for general distinction between multiple male characters, NOT to imply an age below adulthood.

False identification does not make a man out of a broodmare. It is a hard-learned lesson, one that arrives too late for those escapees who think themselves more than a wet hole and a warm mouth. Thankfully for these poor, confused creatures, there are safeguards in every town. A funnel of sorts, for those omegas who sign up for work under the guise of a proper laborer.

There is no better way to subdue an omega, after all, than to give it what its body needs. When one gets it in his pretty little head that he wants to play citizen, how is a town to restore him to his proper place? Such is precisely the work of dairy farms, always accepting workers no matter the season or qualification. For the homeless, penniless escapee, these are often the only jobs available. So they come, obedient despite all their earlier resistance. From their first day on the job, they are already recaptured.

The first thing a new boy does when he meets his fellow farmhands is to look up.

They choose the new farmhands carefully—small and cute like nature’s dolls. Out of all the lost omegas desperate for jobs, they find the ones with truly no other option. Of those, they find the ones that suit their tastes and send the rest trotting to other nearby farms. As general rule, they look for fidgeting, shoulders drawn downward, cheeks flushing pink when the interviewers drop rare praise. The physical examination checks for all the usuals, with a secret emphasis on stamina, responsiveness to touch, fertility.

They pick one boy per cycle. Only one. Makes them easier to bend, if they come alone. The newest, the smallest, the weakest, the least experienced—and throw that in with these huge, tightly muscled, self-assured farmhands who have been doing this for years. It’s enough to bring out all the natural submissive instincts.

All the workers change together, in a deliberately cramped shed where the boy sees little above anyone’s chest level, and the baths are just an open room with tile and nozzles. Even if he escapes the overwhelming scent of bigger, stronger males, he has full view of sun-kissed skin dappled with soap bubbles and glistening with water. The trace amounts of hormones mixed into the newbie’s meals won't let him ignore it; nor would the chemicals blended into their soap, meant to soften skin and hike up sensitivity slowly but surely. There will come a day when any clothing is too much pressure and friction to handle, but until then, the boy dresses himself in tight briefs, heavy overalls, the works. All soaked in those same chemicals during laundry, of course. Whatever suppressants the omega would have come by are swiftly swapped for more heat inducers, to keep the haze of arousal building steadily.

At this stage, there's not much for the other farmhands to do yet, besides be a good audience. They stare down the boy at his most sensitive, pretending not to notice him squirm. They ramp up the casual ass slaps and act like they didn't feel that moisture building between shivery legs. They don't say a thing when they pick up the riding pace, thundering down the hills on horseback and laughing louder than the poor omega can gasp and squeak. There was nothing like bouncing on horseback to torture a omega's useless cock and get his hole craving something more. With all those hormones and chemicals working on him, both inside and out, pretty little thing never stood a chance.

Each day ends with the boy’s hole puffy, his cock swollen up, and everything shamefully wet. As much as he may want to ignore his nipples, every second of the working day means rough fabric torturing the delicate nubs. Then he puts on fresh clothes the next day, freshly treated with those potent solutions, and the process only continues.

Perhaps he looks out over the herds they’re meant to care for. Fields upon fields of soft, content omegas with their bulging bellies and breasts. The stables, teeming with noises of pleasure as the senior farmhands milk each boy by hand. Buckets fill with warm milk, bellies fill with hot, potent cum. It is so much like what the omega escaped from in the first place, and yet… there’s this low burn of want. Envy.

For the first months, he shakes his head and tries to deny these thoughts. The breeding, the milking, the whole livestock treatment shouldn’t look so good. When he thinks the other farmhands’ backs are turned, he whispers urgently to the nearest “cow,” trying to urge some spark back into the other boy’s eyes. But all he gets is a dazed smile that goes blissed out and lewd when the young in that boy’s belly kicks just right. Over and over, he sees the same touches he had fled from being welcomed by these other omegas. The same fucking, except painless and with showers of compliments. He ends each day shaken, fighting the innate desire to be freed of his clothing, his daily duties around the farm, the dirtiness of his secret arousal.

He could be accepted, pampered, and so much less alone if he just stripped down and got on all fours...

The comments in the changing shed don't help. After weeks of “not noticing,” the other farmhands start saying things that drop straight to the poor boy’s groin. When they come back from a long day on horseback and the boy’s pants are too soaked to ignore, “Damn, sweetheart, you like looking at dairy cows that much?” “You got a thing for spreading your legs or something?” “Forget about the cows, man, we could just milk Junior at this point.” It’s all in good fun, of course, all passed off as jokes and swiftly “forgotten” like every other embarrassing moment. The real farmhands take their turns playing the Good Samaritan who whispers to the boy that they’re just joking around, that the boy can stroke himself off to whatever he likes, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Warm promises of acceptance for what their sweet newbie is becoming. The compliments build, louder than every impulse that first drove their escape.

After life on the run and all its deprivation, it’s a wonder what a little food and care could do for the omega’s body. Smoothness grows into softness grows into healthy, gentle curves. That little rump fills out and makes for a delicious view rolling up and down in the saddle. Shirts start pulling tight around the shoulders as proper mammary glands regain form beneath their nipples, pushing outward slowly but surely. Their underwear strains around their widening hips and throbbing cocks, to press painfully tight against their taint and grind up on their hole.

There’s more than just size and confidence  separating them from the real farmhands now; some men are men, and others are just good boys at their beck and call. The omega is no longer a newbie, but they still stuff his schedule with menial tasks, just to wear him out while they enjoy the real work of this farm. They could kick him down and put his mouth around their cocks whenever they damn well pleased, but there’s power in just keeping him wanting. He works, they watch. He struggles, they watch. He aches with need every waking hour and moans helplessly in his sleep, they…

Eventually, they stop watching. Breeding bitches aren’t made just by looking. There comes a bit of a sedative at dinnertime, a bit more hard labor, and a very wrecked and exhausted boy desperately stripping so he can climb into bed. The work clothes are too much at this point, so the soft covers are a blessing. The boy won't wake until next morning even if he’s molested for hours on end.

Which is, of course, exactly what they do. With their beautiful omega knocked out and already nude, they give him all the touching he could dream of. All that time starved of love and attention has him arch beneath their hands, moaning shamelessly as he would never dare while awake. Big hands wrap around his cock and squeeze out rush after rush of come, all carefully harvested to leave no evidence behind. Further down, his hole offers zero resistance as thick fingers tease the rim, scope out the tight channel, and rub circles around his prostate. Just enough so that he wakes tingling from his core. Special attention is lavished upon those glands that make the passage all slick and deliciously musky. Smooth, barely-there breasts grow much more quickly with daily fondling and a bit of suckling, until milk is oozing out at the slightest touch.

The boy wakes up breathing hard, in a pool of his own juices and leaking thin cream all over his chest. He feels sated and blissed out before the day even begins, and the emptiness inside only makes him look forward to sleep. Of course he doesn't feel like working. If he were any less tired, he’d wonder what was happening, but the only thinking he can do centers on this need blossoming inside him. This familiar warmth making everything fuzzy and pleasurable. He drops things, trips constantly, answers direct questions with only the faintest of groans as his mind races. He wants to be filled, to be petted as gently and lovingly as in his nightly “dreams.” As the farmhands do with the cows he is supposed to be herding.

It should be strange that no one scolds him for his inattention. Instead, he gets pats to the shoulder and ruffles to his hair, with gentle platitudes. “It’s okay, you’ll do better later, right?” Of course. Whatever “doing better” means, he can't imagine anything but. He’s bathing in compliments and doesn't notice that he didn't put clothes on this morning before showing up to the barn. They soaped him up and hosed him down while he blindly felt for the baths. His chest is so big now, all round and jiggly as he stares blankly down. The soft lumps too big to wrap his hands around, but his buddy’s hands still cover them both perfectly. They drip warm trails of milk while he lies here in soft grass, so pleasant against his back.

There’s some denim on his leg again, and it’s suddenly so annoying. He hates the stupid denim. It’s all scratchy and stupid and heavy and he needs it _off_ , right now. His hands fumble, but there’s someone helping him. He tries to say thank you, like the good boy that he is, and there's already a warm voice falling like a blanket over him, asking if he likes that. It’s calling him pretty things like sweetheart and pet, so he keeps saying yes. But the voice keeps asking… should he say it louder? The hand moves lower and touches him exactly where he needs it if he’s louder, so of course he should be nice and loud. There’s more pretty words that make him gasp and giggle, and the grass tickling on his back makes him giggle more.

The sun seems to be getting stronger, making him all sweaty and tingly, but no one is annoyed by the sweat so he’ll just enjoy the big hands and nice words. Something’s happening to his cock that his mind go white as if he stared into the sun, and… oh, now his stomach is wet. His legs are wet too, and his nipples, but he’s still called “pretty” and “such a good boy, coming for me, can we get these legs open so we can have more?”

More, yes. Yes, he wants more. Please give him more, please...

There is a new omega lolling happily in the pasture, freshly bred up and harnessed for his first litter, with his belly already showing. A collar around his neck and a tag on his ear mark him as high-value livestock. Horses circle the greenery in loud, dusty circles, casting huge shadows over the drowsy herd. One shadow is a bit smaller than the others and trails slightly behind, until someone shouts, “Hey, newbie!” The boy stammers an apology and clumsily snaps the reins, and so the cycle begins anew.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Messed up as it was, I hope it was enjoyable as the sick fantasy that it is! :)
> 
> Recommendations for future chapters are always welcome in the comments/my inbox.


	3. The Stables

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Heads-up for this chapter: horse bestiality, human furniture, wall bondage/glory hole, cum inflation, milking jugs, implied impregnation, more mindbreak**
> 
>  
> 
> Other warnings from the previous chapter carry over. The dehumanization aspect is possibly stronger in this chapter than the last, so caution is advised. Please recall that these stories should be entirely separated from reality.
> 
> Thank you all for the support and understanding so far. I will be fulfilling the requests that have been made. More info on that after the chapter...

While the dairy farms put fresh milk on the table, beyond the barns are the stables. The territory of equestrian experts, with keen eyes for quality and a ruthless approach to producing the finest of steeds. For the cavalry’s top breeding specialist, every horse in his stable was worth a small fortune, and his trade secrets worth even more. No amount of money would have him reveal the location of his personal fields, nor how he managed to bring out fresh stallions year after year without taking a single mare off the market. To their questions, he only smiles under the shadow of his hat and continues scanning the newspapers. For independent job postings that look just the right amount of unprofessional. For desperate families willing to sell certain sons at the age of maturity.

What can be used will be used, thoroughly and constantly, and omegas with no master to speak for them fall precisely within that category.

There’s a frantic squeal from the stables, in between the thumping and guttural neighs. One boy blinks awake to the feeling of something in his gut being pummeled from behind. Instinct tells him it is his womb, aching to be filled. The heat tells him to be proud, to be eager, to welcome the breeding as an omega should. The thing inside him is deliciously thick, sculpted and firm and a straight shot from his entrance to the folds gating his womb. Any harder, and it might just breach him twice in one thrust. He shivers at the thought, wanting, rolling his hips back with a wanton cry.

But his mind goes cold as awareness settles in, as he realizes just what position he is in. He can barely put together that he’s a part of a stable door, just slotted through holes in the wood. The largest supports his midsection, just under his breasts and above what feels way too heavy to be his tummy. But indeed, it is his. A bulging stomach that rolled with every thrust behind him. He could feel it shifting between his thighs, held apart as his knees are made to crook on the other side of a hole in the wood. The boy shakes his head, suddenly terrified, but when he jerks away, he finds his wrists also secured into the door. He is little more than a piece of furniture, to be swung in on a horse’s cock and swung out to be out of the way.

At each tit, there’s a monstrous rubber contraption that seals over his nipples and sucks them out into huge peaks. Every time the horse rams in, sliding roughly against his inner walls, it shoves his breasts forward and back. The motion naturally milks him into the rubber nozzles, from which big glass jars dangle. The swinging jars fill with gushes of milk as he is rocked back and forth, unable to even touch the heavy weights dragging his tits downward. The constant tug of gravity and this pendulum motion from fucking only force his breasts to expand. Right now, his are about a handful each, but he sees with wide eyes that the omega across from him has breasts the size of melons slamming into the stable door while the stallion behind him rutted wildly. And those eyes fill with tears as he realizes he would never have the strength to tear free from this door that he was mounted on. He was stuck now, to be bred like a horse’s glory hole and milked into glass jars for as long as he was ripe for it.

But that huge cock inside him… that pulsing head, the ridge just beneath it, veins swelling thick all the way to its fat base. More like stone than flesh, it dragged brutally on his soft insides, rubbing the tender channel raw and destroying the rim of his hole. But his balls tightened despite the horror of it all. How could they not when huge, firm balls the size of his fist swung hard against them at such a rhythm? The omega’s little cock jumped excitedly, would be erect if his huge tummy weren’t in the way. Just then, the stallion broke the rhythm. One hard shove and it bury deep, balls flattening his, forcing his hips flush against his belly and his belly against the wood panel he was embedded in. Hard cock filled every possible inch of him, just pulsating at the base of his belly before coming in hot jets and grinding it all in. And that was it. That flipped the switch. The breeder came with a scream, muffled by a cheap rag tied between his lips.

As he arches, body curving with the shape of the cock rammed into him, the heavy jars at his chest swing out with the motion and slam back in, smacking hard on the wooden stall door. To his shame (and a violent amount of pleasure), it just has his tits squirting all over the insides of the jars, nipples beaded pink and painting the glass white. The contrast was telling, between the gushing of his tits and that cute little spurt of cum he called an orgasm. Though neither made a splash next to the oceans emptying out inside him. The excess squelched out, splattering warm and filthy against his already-slick thighs. His lower half was just a big drippy mess, sticking the soft underside of his thighs to the muscled hind legs of the horse.

The stallion maneuvered himself deeper, twisting like a corkscrew and making the boy’s insides twist too, but it only dragged his orgasm longer. He was sobbing now, hiccuping and struggling to breathe, now realizing that the hugeness in his stomach just increased by that much. It swelled between his legs, bulging against the wooden door, bloated on so, so much cum. He wouldn’t be able to hold himself up if not for being slotted through the door and skewered on a hard cock.

Maybe that was all he was good for now, being a horse’s cum dump. He got all wet for an animal’s cock and came at the moment of getting impregnated. Or impregnated again. The sloshing weight in his stomach was enough to plant a whole stable’s worth in him. A whole stable that he would feed out of his own tits. 

But for now, the omega rocked back on the giant cock and let the tingle in his prostate spread all through him. He’ll come all over his stomach and legs again, fill his milk jars and get them swapped out for fresh ones, suckle on the feeding phallus that they gave him. It only rounded his stomach out more, until he thought he might burst. There was plenty of excess seed frothing white and creamy at his battered hole, but that massive horse dick shoveled it right back in with a filthy wet slap. 

The stablehands would eventually come take the horses out for some trotting and exercise, but the boy stays helplessly bound, just a part of the furniture. He’s nothing more than a hole and womb, heavy and teeming with seed. Weekly inspections put numbers to that fact. The circumference of his belly and tits, the dilation of his hole, the elasticity. Cold metal instruments plunge in and out methodically while the boy shakes and squirms, to weak to even moan. He should be furious, to be treated like a simple animal, but their touches tingle through him, jostle the sheer fullness of his belly. This isn’t the litter of a proper alpha, he knows, but there’s something so horribly, wonderfully right about it. He moans his protests, louder and louder until he’s simply moaning like the cum slut that he is, body singing with pleasure as the horror fades from his eyes.

He aches, cold and empty, until that familiar cock slots into his gaping hole and fills him back up all the way to the womb. Yes, this is better than the metal probes and gloved hands. Big and rock hard and full of thick, creamy seed for his hungry body. He raises his ass, grinding into the hairs of the horse, and is rewarded with those powerful hips slamming him into the doorframe. Yes, yes, this is much more strength than any alpha could muster. And he’s taking it so well, he’s gonna be so full of cum and so full of colts and so full of both until he gives birth in this very stable. Each violent thrust rocks the door and his bound body back and forth, but from the mindless smile on his face, it seems yet another omega has learned to embrace his purpose.

The stable doors close as the workers leave the horses to their nightly reprieve and the breeders to their efficient use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting next chapter, I will begin fulfilling these requests. I'll be starting with one of MoonLord's suggestions and another anonymous suggestion.
> 
> \-- a public tool for relief for an athletic team (written, now in editing; keeping with the vaguely fantasy setting, I've modified the athletic  
> team to a military/gladiator tournament team)  
> \-- omega trying to escape by boat, gets revealed by a sea monster breeding him in front of whole crew and afterwards gangbanged despite being full of monster eggs
> 
> In no particular order, here is the rest of the bucket list so far.
> 
> \-- being sold as slaves to older acquaintances  
> \-- an escapee being caught and subsequently punished  
> \-- omega siblings watching each other suffer (may combine with the above)  
> \-- a bar serving alcohol brewed inside omega bellies
> 
> You are welcome to suggest new ideas or certain details within the above ideas (like a specific punishment for the captured escapee). Will update the request list as things get more concrete!


	4. The Stadium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Heads-up for this chapter: enclosure (claustrophobes should skip to paragraphs 3-5), plugged when not in use, boot-licking, deepthroating, spitroasting, double penetration, branding, public orgy**
> 
> Requests Fulfilled  
> \-- sold to organizations to relax the attendants  
> \-- servicing entire sports teams
> 
> Despite my revisions, I'm certain there are still typos hiding from me. Sorry in advance. Thank you all for your feedback and suggestions, and I will continue satisfying the requested scenarios.
> 
> As always, I cannot and will not condone such practices against real people. So with that in mind... please enjoy the next chapter.

The annual jousting tournament came with a fanfare of its own. Main street decked out like a festival, each team’s entrance no less than a parade. The contestants themselves rode at the helm. They greet the crowds wearing their parade armor, caught the sun in glorious smatters of color. The more efficient armor rode in the back, thumping along with the lances and shields and various equipment.

With the noise of the crowd and the clinks of tightly packed metal, the soft whimpers from within one crate go completely unheard.

As the wagon wheels clack over cobblestone, the thin wood of the crate strains, tossing in the tight space between some helmets and practice shields. A particular jolt draws out a longer cry, muffled and desperate, before the wagon settles back into rhythm. A spot of moisture darkens the wood.

While the athletes receive their glorious welcome, this is where the omegas ride, packed in together with the other equipment. The crates are standard-issue, besides one that features a tall wooden phallus bolted to the base of the crate. The tight fit and exhaustion keeps the boy fully seated, prostate bouncing over the flared tip. The phallus sits hard and unforgiving, refusing to bend and forcing the boy to adjust instead, folded in half with tear-stained cheeks pressed into his knees. Still, the vibrations of the road are merciless, sending shockwaves so deep that his guts are tingling. He sits in days-old puddles of slick, reeking of his own helpless pleasure and still trembling from an orgasm he can hardly remember.

He has no part in the festivities, not yet. While the knights greet their fans, his only job is to sit, messy and gaping as the crowds roar outside. The foolish soul dares to wish for tournament day to come faster.

When they reach their tent and haul him out of the box, he all but sobs his relief. Even the bucket of cold water dumped over him as a cursory bath is a luxury, and he spreads his limbs for the first time in days. The knights just chuckle, murmuring to each other about how eager the boy must be, to spread his legs as soon as he was prone before his masters. Slick pours out of his twitching hole, wasted on the hard stone floor. The phallus had done its job. One by one, they empty the boxes, and the pile of loose-limbed, aching omegas grows.

For five crates of live entertainment, one tiny crate of “clothing” is more than enough. One hand in the hair tips their heads back, and a collar fits easily over their exposed necks. Right over the friction burns from last time. Their mouths are stuffed mid-moan with metal bars. Not that they expected omegas to be capable of conversation, but who knew what team secrets might slip past an undisciplined tongue? No use for those mouths until the alphas needed them. Now, left to drool around their bit, leather gloves are pulled up and over their elbow, with matching boots strapped up to mid-thigh. Just the bare minimum to prevent property damage, while said property was fucked on all fours.

The team had a sizable collection, plenty to keep the knights and squires company. Three won from other teams in drunken bets, one as dowry from a family member’s wedding, and one straight off the “free if captured” list that every able-bodied hunter had on hand. This newest addition had been caught fresh, still screaming inanities and straining against his leash. And so, Number 5 went straight to the breaking box, where he stayed for the entire voyage until today. As the rest were led by squires to the stables to be fed and properly cleaned, the knights gather around their newest prize, and take in the view.

And what a view it was. Where a firm pucker used to sit between the globes of his rear, the flesh simply plunges inward in rings of pink, hollow and dripping. Without the phallus to keep him plugged, his body twists around the emptiness, too stretched to fill the space himself. Soft, anguished moans spill from his mouth while days’ worth of sealed slick flowed from behind. It leaves a glistening trail on the floor as he writhes, delirious and exhausted. Almost like an invitation, beckoning his audience to examine the source.

If the omega wasn’t in heat before, he most definitely is now, overwhelmed by the scent of so many, many strong alphas after a week of deprivation. Just the smell of them has him close to coming again, just from leaking and gaping and feeling all those eyes on him. Sobbing openly now, he drags himself across the stone floor to the nearest pair of boots, ass twitching behind him.

Wordlessly, a hand undoes his metal gag and pulls it aside. One boot raises just enough to brush his open mouth, dusty leather scraping his tongue. For a second, he gags, staring up in bewilderment. An expectant gaze stares back down at him, while the alpha pointedly licks his lips. On another day, the omega might have rolled his eyes, irritated. How was he supposed to interpret that? Didn’t these big brutes get all hot and bothered by giving orders anyways? So why were they attempting subtlety now? But those thoughts never gain shape through the pounding in his head. Mindlessly, instinctively, the boy drops his cheek to the floor, whining his confusion.

All he gets is another nudge from the boot, and another, and another. The omega murmurs blearily… until a certain scent washes over him, pure and unrestrained. A fresh shudder works through the boy as he stares upward, mouth suddenly watering. The alpha grins down, weighing his cock in his hands. 

He wants it. He wants it so much it physically hurt. Words bubble out of him, shameless things that he once scoffed at. But he won’t deny borrowing a few choice words from the slaves he caught sight of while on the run. It worked for them, didn’t it? Got them into the alphas’ laps with big hands working over them? But his begging only earns him another kick from behind, pushing his nose into the boot already by his face.

_ Show us how much you want it _ , they say above him. But he can’t figure out how. Thinking hurts. Being empty hurts. Why did the alphas have be so mean? Another sob shakes through him, smearing tears and other mess onto the alpha’s boot. Something about it just adds to the awfulness of the situation, and he can’t stand to see it for another second. Murmuring an apology, he licks up the man’s boot, crying harder at the taste of his own tears. He has seen this before, hidden in seedy alleys while slower omegas were pinned like butterflies to the dirt. He had thought himself fortunate for staying ahead of the hunters and managing to hide, but... why was that? The answers were too hard to hold onto. He peered up imploringly through his bangs, unsure what he was begging for but begging all the same.

It seems to get him somewhere. Just as he was tonguing a buckle on the boot, the knight pulls up a crate and sits down, gesturing to the middle of his trousers. The sharp scent of it pulls the omega up like a tug on some invisible leash, half-crawling half-scrambling to kneel between the man’s legs. He could smell it through the pesky fabric, that thick, all-encompassing aroma of the dominant sex. He tugs the trousers down with his teeth, with dexterity he did not know he possessed, and swallows a good half in one go.

At the pressure at his throat, something just… clicks. The panic seeps out of his eyes, and a new kind of shiver travels down his spine all the way to the tips of his toes. A hand settles at the nape of his neck, thumb massaging through the hair between his ears, and the boy just slowly fell forward. Breathing deep lungfuls of alpha pheromones as that cock inched inward, sliding over his tongue to fill his gullet. His senses scream  _ too big, too big, you’re going to choke _ , but his throat just swallows loosely, rumbling with a noise of sudden contentment. His cock perks up again between slick thighs as he finally hits the base, and he can barely breathe, but that’s not important. Not when that flared head is twitching at the base of his neck, when the beginnings of a knot are demanding invitation at his lips. 

The hand in his hair pulls him back, drawing a confused whine before he’s slammed forward again, the knot slamming against this lips but still too thick too breach. Tears run openly down the boy’s cheeks, but rather than pain or shame, he is overwhelmed with gratitude. He had not truly grasped how wrong the emptiness felt until it was fucked out of him. Or this part of him, at least. Gingerly, he raises his hips off the floor and braces himself on his knees, for better balance as this alpha claimed his throat and to bare his aching hole to the knights still waiting their turn. He was wrong, he shouldn’t have fled. But even if he did not deserve it, perhaps they could make him right again.

He barely tastes the cum flooding his throat, but he feels the heat travelling inward. Feels thick, slippery seed frothing between the walls and the thick cock still pumping into him. When it at last pulls free from his lips-- with a whimper of protest from the omega-- he falls back into another knight’s waiting arms. Up he goes, into the lap of the largest knight, their team’s captain, already stroking himself to fullness. It’s testament to how wet he is that the thick, glistening rod sheathes right down to the hilt, snug and blessedly hot. Two big hands settle on his ass with a slap, drawing a squeal that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the alpha’s burning handprints. Something in him strangely hesitated at being marked, but a second slap sends that thought fizzling away into nothing. When he rolls his hips back into that powerful grip, he is rewarded with a thrust from below and more hands bracing his chest and teasing the buds of his nipples. 

In the delirium of heat, the hands and mouths seem infinite. He could count them no more than a drowning man could count the waves assailing his body, sucking out strength and replacing it with loose-limbed exhaustion. He leans into their touches, mewling weakly as they kiss down his throat and palm his sensitive chest. When a fresh cock nudges at his lips, he suckles eagerly. When a hard knot squelches past his entrance, he wriggles down until he’s wrapped around every possible inch. A hot rush of cum soon bursts inside, a sudden heat so much better than the feverish need that had come before it.

He whimpers as the cock slips free, begs wordlessly when he feels that precious seed trickling out, and all but comes when he feels two slippery heads poking at his hole. He does come as they slide in together, wrenching him even wider and thrusting in turns, so that someone is always buried deep while the other smashes past his prostate to take back that deeper spot. Again and again, until his belly fills with more and more warm seed. He teeters on the edge of consciousness, too blissed out to even move, when suddenly a searing pain brings him back.

His screams amount to little with a cock still filling his mouth and thick thumbs holding his teeth apart, and he can’t even turn to see what happened. But he could feel a sharp burn clinging to the left side of his ass, the fluid hands from before suddenly as heavy as stone. He can’t move at all, helpless as the heat ate into his skin. He doesn’t know how long it takes to see through the blinding pain. Dimly, he catches glimpse of a hot metal rod, with a patterned end still glowing from the furnace. 

As his senses recollect, he knows that whatever mark the metal bore is now permanently etched into his body.

Property. How could he forget? They had painted his insides as their own and marked his skin as they pleased, one thick rope of cum at a time. Now, no matter how far he ran, a single look at his branded body would tell the authorities exactly where to ship him back to. Collars, piercings, those he could remove, but a burn was a burn. Even as his womb churned eagerly, soaking in cum and telling him that all was well, he had so many mates, the omega knew. As the plug slid back in to trap the vat of semen in his gut, he knew he would never be free again.

* * *

There are five of them, tethered in a row in the stables as the day of the tournament arrives. As dawn breaks, the stablehands and squires wander in, patting the animals awake and scrubbing them down with damp cloths. A few lead the night’s entertainment back into the stables, still dripping cum onto the straw. It would be a sorry sight, but the slowly waking omegas barely have time to open their eyes before the feeding troughs fill up. There they eat, on all fours with their faces dipped into the gruel, streaked with white by the occasional mischievous stablehand. The squires coo and laugh as they wipe off the omega’s faces after they’ve eaten their fill, joking at the mess they’ve made of themselves.

It doesn’t take long to prepare them for the day’s work. A little money pouch tightly strung to their useless cock and balls, a menu with prices inked onto one thigh with a tally box on the other. With that, they are led out by leashes into the stands, just more merchandise to be sold to the attendees.

The festivities begin. Knights charge in the stadium below, and bets change hands. High off the sudden profit, the audience is quick to demand some toys to adorn their laps. The squires scramble to accommodate, and the omegas are thrown headlong, dragging full wallets between their legs. No matter how many hard knots swell past their sloppy holes and empty into their waiting bellies, no matter how delicious the slide of hard cock over battered prostate or the slam of an alpha’s balls against their own, they can’t come. Not with the string denting pink lines in a lattice along their cock, too weighed down with coins to even gain some friction from their cum-flooded bellies.

The occasional patron offers a good stroke or two, mostly just holding their cock as a handle to adjust the angle of their hips, but it only has them screaming around whoever is plugging their mouths. The only orgasms they are allowed come in wet bursts around the cocks nestled inside them, shuddering and clenching as the juices splatter out in between hard thrusts. Their only reward is a fresh knot (or two) splitting them wide and slotting in while their bodies open up, until there’s another hot gush against their womb, and rinse and repeat. It hits right where their hindbrain wants it, right where their traitorous mouths are begging for it, until another cock slips past their cum-stained lips and shuts them up.

The new boys can justify it to themselves later, excusing their wanton squealing with the idea that if they got pregnant, they wouldn’t be trotted out for service. The older ones have no such excuse. They get trotted out no matter how round they are, too swollen to even support themselves without an alpha’s assistance. The squelch and slide of cock just turns off section after section of their minds until they’re babbling around mouthfuls of cum, thoughtless in their thirst for more in all their holes. Sometimes, the organizers go cheap on the heat inducers, because in the end, the conditioning works. Their bodies learn, to let themselves want what they want. And as for the ones that never quite stop screaming, well, there’s always someone who’d pay to fuck them hoarse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, for something a little less mindbreak and a little alcohol...


	5. The Brewery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Heads-up for first part of chapter: extreme inflation and anal dilation, milking, public molestation, watersports (mentioned), suspension bondage (mentioned)**
> 
> **Heads-up for second part of chapter: most of the above and what is debatably incest, more like voyeurism**
> 
> Requests Fulfilled  
> \-- omegas as barrels in a brewery  
> \-- siblings meet as slaves of different masters
> 
> This update arrives later than I intended, but I hope it is worth the wait.

While the stadium surged with noise-- half-conscious moans among rowdy cheers, the clink of chains and coins surrounding the clash of lances-- the city beyond fell into an unusual quiet. The typically busy streets lay bare while the town crowd gathered at the jousting field. The slaves and pets, of course, remained home for their various duties, muffled by the walls of their master’s properties. But one’s attention is better spent downtown. Past the main markets and the residential areas, where the high-end brothels display their offerings.

Most have churned out their slaves to join the stadium rush, hoping to undercut the prices of whatever omegas belonged to the knights’ teams. But a few businesses sit in wait with all their omegas on-site, either out of prestige or some special circumstance. For a certain pub and brewery, it is plenty of both. They knew well that after the day’s festivities, their tables will fill with regulars and tourists alike. No thanks to the quality of their drinks or poorly aged building, though.

The main attraction is the barrels.

Round, soft, with audible gurgle and visible slosh. Resting half on the floor and half on quivering limbs, pink and taut with the stretch. The cellar door opens to drowsy, squirming rows, whimpering even in sleep. The brewers move among their projects, wiping down every inch of skin and toweling around the nozzles, capturing up any leakage from overnight storage. Some nozzles have to be cranked wider at the base until the surrounding flesh is snug and any experimental tugging did not loosen its position. Customers get rough, after all, and it makes such a mess if a barrel came unplugged.

From the ceiling, newer acquisitions hang suspended by tight cord over the hips and chest, with limbs bound to acclimate them for crawling. For them, the brewers have tubes inserted rather than nozzles, draining directly from the brewery’s reserves into the gradually-expanding bellies. Gravity is a fine teacher, coaxing the skin to relax and regrow around the stretch. Slowly, slowly, with daily inspections and lotions to ensure a supple surface. Soon, the newer barrels will have beautiful, heavy spheres to join their fellows on the floor of the cellar. They check the progress of their breasts as well, and make orders for hormone supplements if the natural stretch of their wombs did not trigger enough mammary growth. Gravity does its work here too, with the pumps hanging directly off plump areolae. Squeezing and tugging constantly to fatigue the soft nubs and make for perfect chewing texture.

All in good time, that. Done with their progress reports, the brewers turn back to the readied barrels with armfuls of wooden signs. More tight cord secures these signs front and behind. One sits snugly behind the omegas’ thighs, supported only by a tight cord wrapping once around each leg before threading between the legs. An intricate knot keeps the omegas’ balls bound tightly day and night, aching dully at best, erupting with tearing pain if proper posture was not observed. Standing upright, lazing on one’s side-- all forbidden, and all physically unbearable. As long as the sign remains in place, it serves a dual function, informing the patrons about the barrel’s contents and ensuring that each step was lesson in humility. 

Up front, a second smaller sign hangs between the arms, secured by bands on each upper arm. It thumps painfully on the omegas’ breasts, but the scraped, battered reds are always in fashion for pets. Ever gracious, the pub allows their omegas a sense of beauty, so that they needn’t feel inferior to the pampered pets sometimes arriving with the guests. This sign even included a cute little nickname, fit for any beloved slave. That said, they are still required by law to list the omegas’ prior misdemeanors, and here they did so in tiny print.

A public heat without a minder, infidelity towards a mate, escape. The wilder ones committed fraud and stole jobs from Betas and Alphas. But the past is only words on a sign now, and the pub offers daily opportunities for redemption. They give their boys a home, a purpose, and safety from the creatures of the forest. More than what defective breeders deserve, according to some. But the bar’s Beta owner kept a re-trained pet himself and had endless patience for other “lost causes.” A gilded plaque on the wall honors the brewery’s work in  _ the Rescue and Recuperation of Damaged Omegas _ .

“Every breeder deserves a caring home with the comforts of routine and lots of loving attention,” the owner explains, upon interview. “Traditionally, poor behavior is handled with punishment and deprivation, but you must understand that troubled omegas often come from troubled homes. How could they safely develop their instincts with that lack of stability?” 

Saddened, he gestures to dossiers containing the backgrounds of every omega he’d worked with-- the ones that had any provenance to trace. Families without Alphas or Betas, dependent solely on an omegan parent. Families with weak Alphas or Betas who couldn’t manage rules and discipline. So many future escapees begin like this, forced to make up for the lack of authority and protection in their life. The poor creatures deny their own bodily needs and often imitate Beta or Alpha behavior. Wearing clothing to starve themselves of physical contact, so vital to their health, and standing despite how difficult it would make their pregnancies. It’s evidence of how weak their previous masters had been, for the omegas to be forced to fend for themselves.

“But we believe in a communal education-based approach that directly addresses these self-sabotaging behaviors. Discipline is the most important thing, so they can become comfortable with their bodies and their needs, and it’s the first step to help them feel safe with humans.” At this, he summons his own pet into his lap, enduring its fond licking with a laugh. “Once they realize what they’ve been missing, they just can’t get enough of it! Like making up for lost time.” The whining picks up eventually, and the owner can take no more questions. He is never one to deny an omega what it needs.

It is how the brewery ends up with the infertile, the incontinent, the otherwise defective that the farms turn away. Unable to enjoy that most basic happiness of carrying an Alpha’s litter, they often lash out and scorn the very concept of their gender. But their screams are quieted by the alcohol pooling into them, soaking into the enclosing flesh. The brews are thin, never enough to overwhelm their bloodstream, but a mixture of spices floating and dissolving bring out the inherent flavor of each omega. The result is less a stiff drink and more a shot of primal pleasure, allowing customers a taste of the omega’s deepest parts, otherwise inaccessible. Regulars are encouraged to contribute their own seed to the ingredients, to taste themselves after a night inside their favorite barrel.

For the barrels themselves, the pleasure is threefold. Carrying the brews simulates the fullness of pregnancy or of particularly thorough breeding. Though the contents are less solid, the weight and relaxing properties more than make up for it. Then, letting the customers’ seed filter through their system only heightens their pleasure, spoiling the deprived omega within them. At last, during the working day, they are lavished with endless attention and clear orders that won’t stir up their pretty little heads. There is no confusion, no uncertainty, no pressure to decide for themselves. Who would ever choose a false life on the run compared to this?

One by one, the omegas are led out of the cellar to face the early evening crowd. The flyers and sponsorships bearing the pub’s name at the tournament had yielded extraordinary turnout. Even the teams with their own pleasure toys had hours to waste while the stadium muck got cleaned out and repaired, to warm their beds later that night. Those who had won their bets have plenty of coin to drop, and those who had lost are in the mood for squeezing the juices out of something ripe and warm.

When the desperately encumbered boys wander by their tables, drinks are served directly from the nozzle, with a complimentary cock warmer on the other end. Dragging over wooden floorboards leaves the bulge of the barrels flushed, rubbed raw and sensitive, so it is great kindness to turn the pretty things around and twist on the tap. Warm, frothy fluid fills the cups as the barrel shrinks ever so slightly, and that’s as much relief as those heaving bellies will get. The patrons scoop some ice to chill the contents of their glass, and as they wait, they have plenty of time to enjoy the barrels’ other qualities.

Some just hold the boys there while the nozzles grind up inside them, occasionally flicking a nipple or playing with that rope-bound cock. It didn’t take much to get those natural taps running either, trickling white into the cups for a little extra texture. Though some of the barrels couldn’t shut off the flow after-- all that rubbing seemed to melt away any control in those soft nubs-- but it was easily remedied by an attentive tongue. Certain customers would take up the task themselves, with a barrel upended over the table while they dove in for a taste. Slender omega cocks are something of a delicacy, bubbling cream and, with some prompting, a gush of something golden and savory. The especially generous, who’d brought their own pets along, may allow their personal omegas to enjoy a taste under the table.

For a few spare coins, they got to keep the barrel at the table. Someone would gain a lapful of squirming, distressed omega while they discussed business, talking and laughing overhead. Or perhaps they kick the thing under the table and put that mouth to good use. The waiters would drag those barrels out hours later, stuffed to the brim with all the drinks they started with plus the come they were forced to swallow. If they didn’t swallow or if they blacked out, their faces would unrecognizable under all the spilled semen. A few newer boys would beg or struggle as they swallow, but most, dazed and drunk on their own bubbly contents, just giggle. Or maybe wet themselves at the building pressure. Once it reaches a certain point in the evening, most were beyond embarrassment. They are covered in every possible fluid already, and the squishy noises mean nothing. The few that cry are safe in the countless, comforting hands of the day’s customers.

Still others discover that no matter how dangerously full those bellies look, there is always room for more. They find the small section of the menu that listed food and order as they pleased. Not for themselves, but to hold at the omega’s lips while sharp slaps to the belly force those pretty mouths open. Big hands over the jaw helped them chew and swallow, over and over until their eyes roll back from the growing stretch. Until they couldn’t get their knees to meet the floor around their swollen bodies. There are big jugs of juice available for order, to pour into the barrels and make custom cocktails on the spot. Those with other things on their schedule left requests for the brewery and often purchased ingredients that would go well with a certain barrel’s taste. If that customer was too busy to stop by, their barrel would simply stay in the cellar, waiting on their hands and knees for as many days as is needed.

Closing time meant herding the drowsy, clumsy boys back into their cellar to be drained, washed inside and out, and refilled for the night. Below full capacity, obviously. The brewing process will swell them up by morning. There they lay in wet, shivering clumps on the cold floor, tummies bloated and minds fogged with pleasure and alcohol.

But it’s as good as it gets for the ruined and unwanted. Abandoned omegas often never get the chance to just be omegas again, but here, they are promised a simple, honest job, plus room and board and adoring hands all over. There is truly nothing to complain about at all.

* * *

It happens on another busy day, peak business hours with tired dock workers crowding the air with Alpha musk. If the omegas owned by the pub aren't hopelessly drunk already, they would be from the force of that smell. Instead, most are simply gone, completely dazed except when shouted orders jolted them out briefly, following whatever instincts were paired with the words thrown their way.

From underneath one table, a slim, delicate thing watches the scene with wide eyes. He had woken up in his master’s arms, enthused by the walk he had been promised. The boy had not been allowed outside since one misguided attempt to disappear into the night. After nightly spankings and a machine that left his entire lower half aching and loose, he figured he was finally back in his master’s good graces. The older man had been tolerant before, on account of a friendship with the omega’s father. So the boy let himself be dressed in one of Master’s much larger shirts, not even whining at the coarse fabric on his nipples. He had thanked his owner with a cursory noise, glad to be rid of his boredom at home. Well, he is hardly bored now. The pet’s eyes lower as he pulls his bare legs to his chest, ignoring the strain to his still-sore bottom. Anything to avoid looking at the other omegas crawling about.

But they are everywhere, on the tables and under them, crawling right past his hiding place by his master’s legs. He flinches when some Alpha got dealt a bad hand of cards and took out his frustration with a kick to the nearest belly. A wordless whine only results in a second kick, tipping the boy over as the alcohol sloshed loudly beneath his skin. Fluid foams around the nozzle as those bound limbs shifted, trying to get him back up, but the sign behind the omega’s legs kept him folded and helpless. Another passing boy nuzzles the one that was downed, answering pained whimpers with soft, drunken humming. Eventually, a waiter kneels, cooing, and pulls the fallen barrel up. A firm kick to the shins gets it moving again, teetering and weak. The pet huddles smaller, praying his master did not get any ideas.

Above him, Master calls for a whiskey, and immediately, one of the other omegas-- no, the “barrels”-- keens in excitement. He scrambles over with surprising dexterity, given that heavy sphere rocking back and forth between his arms and legs. He ends up running directly into the bench, bruising his cheek but completely unperturbed, just nuzzling the wood as if it were an Alpha’s crotch. Master’s friends laugh uproariously as one of them grabs the boy’s hair and leads him up onto their table. The cowering pet hears that telltale hiss of metal from the nozzle releasing, and the stream of liquid into glass.

“Get the ice, pet,” Master’s voice comes. The boy shrinks further for just a moment, but he doesn't dare take too long before crawling out and kneeling to reach the table. He scoops out the ice as quickly as he could with his head down, filling six glasses before he ducks back to safety. Or tries to. Master catches him by the collar before he could even clear the table, and the wood strikes him hard on the jaw as he lost balance.

More laughter. More comments traded about dumb, clumsy omegas. Walks aren’t fun, he decides. It’s better to be bored inside Master’s house than to be mocked by everyone even though he’s supposed to be forgiven. Chants of crybaby, crybaby go around the table when the expected tears bubble up, and the mounting indignation makes it worse. He brings up his hands to wipe furiously, but a soft tongue reaches his cheek first, stroking up along his temple. The pet blinks, looking up at last. And freezes.

“Brother?” The word doesn’t escape his lips, but the question is in the air. Master seems to realize as soon as he does, even while the other omega is still lapping at his tears. Suddenly, both of them are made to turn towards Master and the two friends on either side of him, and the other three lean over the table for a look.

Of course the resemblance is uncanny. Identical twins are like that, and their similarities only make the differences stand out more. The flat, trim waist and the bulging, bubbling tummy full of liquor. The soft leather collar and the chipped wooden signs to denote their current possessors. The pet winces at the ropes cutting between his brother’s thighs, his own nether regions twinging in sympathy. 

“This would look good on you,” Master says thoughtfully, eyeing the nozzle. He traces a hand over his brother’s cock, smoothed by countless hands and unable to contain a slow dribble. The pet cannot see the movements through the broad wall of belly, but he feels that open-mouthed moan falling right by his ear, a few spots of drool hitting the table’s edge. And he knows the instant Master decides to play with the rope connecting the sign to his brother’s balls. That moan becomes a sharp yelp, followed by feeble attempts to raise his hips and present his hole as omegas should. But that enormous tummy prevented anything besides the posture the brewers intended. The pet beneath the table could smell his own pheromone souring with anguish, agitated by cries of pain in his own voice. It only hurts worse to hear the pain fade back into mindless gratitude, as Master strokes the abused flesh and the others at the table prepare for refills.

“Will you take his place?” Master asks him later, when his brother is lolling in the laps of two other Alphas, legs held aloft in the crook of their arms while they licked the milk off his chest. The pet can’t help his shaking as the words sink in, too terrified to not answer and just as terrified to give a wrong answer. The signals cross and fizzle in his head, thick and unpleasant, until a gentle hand down his back cuts through his distress. He melts into his master’s hold, clinging despite his fear. He didn’t deserve any kindness from this man, but a life without it was quickly becoming unthinkable.

“Your brother is a very proper omega now, but he learned a bit too late, didn’t he? Will you be slow like him and force me to give you up for correction?” He shakes his head against the man’s chest, sobbing quietly. The tears stopped only when familiar fingers caress up his thighs and over the rim of his hole, massaging those tender nerves until he calmed. “Good boy, you understand. I always told your father to give me the smarter one of you two. Looks like he chose correctly.”

The pet goes home grateful, even with his brother’s image burned into his eyes. There was recognition in those eyes, a silent plea that occasionally glimmered through the contentment. But they leave the woozy barrels to fulfill their newfound purpose, and he is relieved to stretch out over soft sheets. He is free, to move around the bed and spread his legs and even sit up on Master's cock. Whatever is required to service his kind owner. That night, he places his hands over his belly, warmed and full with nothing but his master’s cum, and he is glad his attempt to run never got further than the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nightmares about alien societies seeing what we consider “human rights” and thinking we are all desperately in need of a civilized society’s help. It is just close enough to some parts of reality that it’s not unimaginable. Of course this A/B/O porn is not equivalent to good intentions gone prejudiced in the real world, and I'm not here to make accusations. I only wish to acknowledge that some readers may find the horrors of this chapter to be closer to home, and to reiterate that I do NOT endorse the mentalities lauded by my unreliable narrators. I also do not endorse trying this sort of brewing at home, considering yeast infections, alcohol poisoning, and other things your doctor would hate to see anyone suffer.
> 
> Back to the overall fic, **I am planning to close requests for this story at the end of June 7**. Don't worry about time zones. This fic already has six future chapters outlined and waiting, so I'd like finalize my plans and focus on tying the stories together before we reach the conclusion. The update schedule is still uncertain, but I have some surprises waiting, and I am eager to see them written.
> 
> I hope this is all satisfactory.


	6. The Atelier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Heads-up for this chapter: gag and muzzle, needleplay, piercings, temporary blindness via magic, mentions of blood, losing control over orgasm, the usual bullshit of helping someone by ignoring their consent.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Requests Fulfilled  
> \-- piercings as means of sensory control and orgasm denial  
> \-- torture porn
> 
> Sorry for being later than expected with this chapter. It got way too long and ultimately needed to be split up. For your patience, please accept this reward of two connected chapters. It’s mostly people being pretentious pieces of shit and completely dismissing the omegas’ humanity, but what else is new.

With obscene wealth sometimes came a desire to see that wealth displayed. Piles of coin would crystallize into a single icy gem, swinging beneath swollen nipples with each thrust. More coin would ensure that nipple offers up little white beads of its own, dripping along one edge of the edge of the gem and hanging, tantalizing, until a slap to the buttocks sent it flinging onto a waiting tongue. Money may not buy happiness, but it will buy a beautiful body and things to thread into its flesh. Shiny rings and sharp things to refine and perfect. Money could buy a lilting voice, singing pleasure or torment when the piercings twist against very specific nerves.

Fire gold. A not-so-rare ore sifted from deep inside old dragons’ lairs. It scalds the miners’ thick gloves even as impure lumps, and it tingles something fierce nestled into soft, naked skin. There is an art to it, as one jeweler and tattooist likes to say. All bodies are just a tremulous web of nerves to their exploring eye. Place the right dew drops on the right threads, and the whole lattice becomes strings around a puppet master’s fingers.

The artist was quick to demonstrate this-- a practiced dart of needle under flesh, a bloody pinprick wiped away and replaced with a crystal the same color. A tug on the connecting ring, and the canvas’ heat-dazed face jolts with arousal. Firm fingers trace the decorated skin like an instrumentalist seeking out a tune, extracting calculated moans and gasps until one final tweak drew out a cry of orgasm. Pheromones are not necessary; money could buy omegas that need whatever they are given, whatever they were told to need. The art of fire gold wired into their skin made sure of it.

The next canvas arrives in a fit of shouting, jaw grinding against his muzzle. He could feel it bruising his skin, perhaps ruining his pretty face for potential buyers, and in his rebellion, he thinks that a victory. The assistants to either side of him urge him not to hurt himself, poor dear, it’ll all be okay. But he thrills in the burn of their rough gloves working over his skin, smirking as much as he is able when they titter over the damage. Once he finds something to destroy his hole with, they won’t be able to sell him. In his naivete, he thinks that would be a better fate.

It is the work of every conscientious Beta to dissuade such notions. With a long-suffering sigh, the artist fetches an oft-used bottle and shakes it to mix the contents appropriately. Grabbing the muzzle-- a firm hand is necessary here-- he tips the bottle and pours directly into the gaps of the metal. The balled-up cloth inside soaks through quickly, and the omega’s eyes fly up, movements stuttering as he tries to hold his breath. But already, it is too late. Potent Alpha pheromones fill his airways, the effects compounded by heat inducers already lacing through his system. The boy barely gets another kick in before tensing, suddenly aware of warmth trickling down his veins. The artist had walked off by then, searching through more bottles on the shelves, while the assistants proceed with much less struggle, depositing him on a crude stone table.

He expects shackles to close over his wrists and to force his legs apart, but instead, warm hands close over his eyes. Through the sudden darkness, magic sears into his retinas, and he screams, the sound tearing through his throat. He tosses his head wildly to move those hands away, but the weight of them seem to follow him everywhere, long after the gloves peel away. And it is then that he realizes. It is still dark. He blinks, frantic, moving as he would to look left and right, but there is nothing except his own screaming, disembodied and shrill. The handicap is temporary, but the boy has no way of knowing it. Air catches in his throat and barely makes down as breaths turn into rapid, choking gasps.

But even as cold fear slices through the arousal, the steady intake of air floods his system with Alpha Alpha Alpha. The tense lines of his muscles smooth out one by one, forced to relax and trapping his terror inside of him, out of the artist’s way. The room seems to extend forever, miles and miles of now-invisible horrors, and yet everything feels too close. Meanwhile his remaining senses sharpen to the point of overload. 

Without anything to hold him still, he was free to struggle anew, but at this point, the writhing is just for show. To show off lovely contours and the gentle flush of exertion, made all the more delectable by the sheen of expensive primers on his skin. Pushing away from one touch leaves him wide open to another, steadying and so terribly comforting. He catches himself chasing the warmth and whimpers his distress. Or tries to. The sound that escapes is higher, open-mouthed and whorish. Pleasure twists, warm and visceral, seizing him by the core. The attendants need only stand there holding his knees apart for him to come undone.

More and more, breathing was becoming a monumental task, and it was all he could do to bow forward, shoulders glistening with sweat as he buried his nose in the muzzle. The extracted musk made his mouth water, opening before he could think twice and suckling on the fabric. And now that he’s had a taste, it only hurt all the more that there are only Betas in this room. That strong hand on his back pressing his face against the stone should be bigger. It should move lower, sink inside, mark him up.

What he gets instead is a needle to the back of the neck.

Like puffing out a candle, it shocks him out of the haze, drawing a cry of genuine pain. A burning sensation follows the needle, threading under his skin and settling dangerously close to the nerves flowering around his mating glands. The next needle sinks in just an inch above the last, and he didn’t dare pull away for fear of ripping the fragile flesh. 

And yet that hand on his back remains, firm and comforting. The animal part of him celebrates the phony mating bite, sharpened by the loss of his other senses, and happy hormones flood everywhere they can reach. Even without his sight, he knows he has deflated, a limp puddle of nerves all spread out on the table. How sweet and obedient, holding still and baring his neck even without being told. Everything is finally clicking into place.

But no, that can’t be. Of course he hasn’t lost control. He is merely behaving to speed up the process and minimize pain. All perfectly rational and unaffected. The omega comforts himself with that silly idea, though his hips now tremble for a reason far from pain. 

There is no pattern to the needles, no way to escape what he cannot see coming. The oils stroked into him leave the skin supple, easily punctured and healing just as swiftly to seal the golden rings in place. A healthy glow of pink frames each new decoration, lighting up his naturally warm complexion. The artist works quickly as the handlers maneuver their delicate canvas as needed. Between the blindness and the magic brewed into those oils, he is nothing but the sensations coursing through him. Building and building as hours slip by. Above him, the two assistants murmur in pitying tones. How long had their patient deprived himself of an Alpha’s comfort, for this poor imitation of a mating bite to affect him so much? 

An all-consuming ache wars with the gentleness of hands keeping him grounded. A ceaseless back-and-forth that allows him no rest, no bliss of unconsciousness. He feels every pin prick, every ring sliding into him, and every slow caress that brings him back from the edge. Only for another vicious sting to send him back over. Again and again, constellations drawn in long, excruciating lines. Threads of fire gold nestle deep, healing and burning the surrounding flesh all at once, their new weight dripping but never overflowing. 

The final product lays soft and glittering and perfect, limbs pliant and chest gently heaving. Ink and piercings wind intricate, barely visible paths all over him, rewriting his very nerve structure according the artist’s vision. His erogenous zones will be here, his pressure points there, an easy button for punishment right down here. A wave of sealing magic places his orgasm under lock and key, bound to whatever triggers his eventual owners desired. They test the mechanism right there, nestling a finger to trace circles over his prostate. They flip every switch that the omega could have, leaving him to sob from the force of his arousal, and wait the requisite half hour of nothing escaping his cock. It’s a truly pitiful sight by the end, flushed and straining but unable to fight the forced tension in his muscles sealing him tight. Words bubble weakly into the muzzle, begging until he at last went hoarse and too weak to form a thought.

And when they finally step back, the artist recites his brief incantation and snaps his fingers. Right on cue, his hips jolt up and there is white splattering all over his finely adorned front. Milky fluid leaves the skin slick between glittering bands of gold. He manages a breathless cry of relief before the fingers snap again, forcing a second spurt while he still reeled from the first. His brows furrow briefly in confusion before a third orgasm seizes him, going through all the motions even though he was well and empty by now. The artist counts aloud, watching idly as the omega arched off the table, slipping on his own slick, head shaking frantically. That is all any of the Betas say until the boy falls unconscious, wrung out but still twitching on cue. They can’t discuss the object of their test-- the omega’s stamina-- lest the boy fake sleep and render their tests inaccurate. One attendant checks for awareness while the other writes down the results. He makes a little noise of wonder at the final numbers. The scraggly creature they’d dragged in and bathed had not seemed like quality stock in the slightest, but the artist’s work truly does wonders. The Beta would remember this specimen well into his eventual career.

Night falls outside, but the light does not change here in the depths of the studio. The omega’s muzzle is pulled away, trailing saliva that falls upon the studs in his throat. In the hands of a master, those studs would allow for tuning and volume control, but in the low candlelight they were simply a sight for the artist to enjoy. The omega himself might not learn of their existence until they are put into use, but that would hardly impact their effectiveness.

On a whim, the artist leans back over, parting that candy pink mouth to study the yet-unexplored space. He considers the muzzle again, and the warm tongue curling automatically under his fingers.

He could work with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go on. Enjoy your double update.


	7. The Gallery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Heads-up for all of chapter: extreme body modification, added animal features, the aftermath of mindbreak**
> 
> **Heads-up for second part of chapter: public auction, exhibitionism, mild impact play, deepthroating, orgasm denial, forced masturbation, stuffing, plugs, mentions of people in boxes**
> 
> Requests Fulfilled  
> \-- auction house of anthropomorphic omegas
> 
> If you’re into furries, go ahead and read the chapter that way. I did my best to keep it vague so that you can picture your preferred form of hybrid. No nasty fucker left behind, and all that. I debated adding natural anthropomorphs into the lore, but the artificial creation of anthropomorphic omegas felt more fitting. That way, we do not have to account for differing biologies among the omega characters, and the story works as a cautionary tale to all omegas within the story’s universe.
> 
> Enjoy some more pseudo-philanthropic bullshit, and please don’t believe a word of it.

The premier gallery for wealthy Betas had just recently updated their displays for the season. The grand building was always glowing on the inside from the sheer decadence of its contents. One installation would catch the light of another and reflect it all around the room. In and amongst the finest of painting, carving, and so on were exhibits for the living and breathing. Hardly the best that this gallery had to offer, but it made a nice end to the seasonal auctions.

The theme for autumn’s exhibit was a return to something more primal, a loving mockery of Alphas and omegas and their animal nature. _Animalia_ , read one ostentatious sign. _Studies in Omegan Instinct_.

One look at the “petting zoo” makes it clear that they’d truly outdone themselves. Right out of the gate, a floppy-eared puppy sniffs timidly among the legs of gallery goers, his jewels and collar clinking musically. Soft ears and a bushy tail, both colored to match his hair, have been adhered with careful spellwork and linked to the neighboring nerves. Pearled rings hang from strategic points-- the tip of the cock and up along the bottom, tracing the curved sac and the goldmine of nerves in the perineum. More fine-line decorations are planted like flowers on a vine, finding the appropriate nerves for the appropriate responses. But what truly completes the look is a little row of gold on the boy’s tongue, for all to see as he panted his excitement. Delighted praise bubbled up around him as metal and magic translated audience approval into some wagging of his tail.

No one corrects the sweet little creature when he mistakes that praise as intended for him, rather than the artist’s handiwork. It is simply so pleasing to see the boy happy, glowing from the petting and treats, after all that he’d gone through. The artists’ plaque hanging from his collar details the sad plight of an escapee forced to survive years without an Alpha’s touch, until he could not stand the torment anymore and broke down in heat on a public road. But, still ownerless after bearing an entire town’s litter, he was adrift and near starving until the Beta rescuers swept in. He was a quick study, the plaque boasts, going from violent and noisy to eager and sweet in less than a day’s training. Thus his reimagining as a puppy, so that his visuals may match the purity of the soul inside.

So on and so forth. A bouncy bunny in fur-lined, sheer white lingerie wriggles his pert bottom when the patrons feed him both front and behind. A kitten in the corner swishes his tail in feigned irritation when the puppy tumbles into him, but still blushes on cue when the studs on the puppy’s tongue catch and tug on one pierced nipple. A former dairy cow now fully looks the part, with a tag on one drooping ear and patches of gold to decorate sun-kissed skin. His udders required no modification-- the soft jugs sway beautifully beneath him-- almost touching the marble floor. An inventive taxidermist produced some aphrodisiac gel as stuffing for his womb, permanently stretched from pregnancy after pregnancy. The soft jelly keeps the boy hard and pleading shyly to be touched, melting into the patrons’ whenever someone took the time. 

For two weeks, the exhibit is open to any who could afford a ticket. Unknowingly, almost innocently, the omegas spend all hours advertising themselves, letting the visitors picture this boy in their lap, that one at their feet. By the day of the auction, every elite has a favorite in mind. Other artworks come and go to stir up some competitive spirit, but soon the air sweetens with arousal and need.

The auctioneer gestures the first boy in with a flourish.

* * *

He feels himself panting, smiling with eyes rolled up to see approving faces loom down at him. The puppy doesn’t remember how he got from the storeroom cage onto this fancy stage, but firm fingers stroking his ears keep him steady. He follows in a comfortable daze, mind happily blank until auctioneer promises a demonstration of the product. The boy whines at that, protesting the big words and the sudden loss of that hand in his hair, but it’s all okay when a thick, juicy treat drops into view. He surges up, mouth watering for a taste.

The screech of a whistle forces him back down, making himself small. A second whistle, and he pushes his legs wider for the audience. The handler produces a clanging bell, and his hole twitches in anticipation, drooling already. Weeks of training acquainted his insides with countless toys, but his favorite was a string of heavy beads with a bell swinging at the end. He aches for its familiar weight now, tail lifting to bare his pucker and let himself peer between spread thighs in search. A restless noise bubbles out as the audience just watches and watches, no one approaching with his toy in hand, and it takes another whistle to make him settle with a whine.

They’re shouting numbers for some reason, but the leaking mess on stage bats the air with his tail and whimpers for the treat dangling right in front him. “Sit,” the handler says in the gap between numbers, and the boy’s hips swing down so quickly that he lands with a squelch. His petite cock sits ready between slick thighs, bobbing eagerly at the rich musk filling his nose. It’s all he could do to keep his tongue in his mouth when the man shouts,“Stay!”

The man steps closer, dragging his much larger shaft over the omega’s face, precum smearing over bright cheeks. It is hard to remember anything when the promise of a treat is so close, but the handler is kind enough to repeat his order. The boy’s struggles for thoughts to help himself obey. He focuses on the stage lights, the stage beneath his bare bottom, his own stark nakedness when everyone else is adorned in layers. But everything fades to black when the handler’s voice finally lets him go ahead, and he swallows to the hilt in one greedy gulp.

There’s a mess on the stage already as he keens in delight and relishes in the veiny flesh pulsing deep in his throat. It drags up and down the piercings dotting his tongue and sends all kinds of shivers down his back for the audience to see. Somewhere far away, the numbers goes up, but his mind has room for little besides servicing the man in front of him.

He doesn’t taste the cum as much as he feels the heat traveling to his core, so when the handler pulls away,  he licks the tip with extra care, determined to catch the flavor. Sated and warm, his tail wags as if it’s always been there. And as far as he could remember, that is probably true. What did he know anyways? He couldn’t even picture the number being called out now. It’s just as well that he doesn’t have to, because the bell is ringing for him off-stage, and he bounds readily to the artist and his two attendants behind the curtain. They give him his promised toy, nestling each ball in with slow caresses to his chest. His mind supplies a count of eight for the balls, but it’s hard to keep track with their touches sliding over him. When a palm presses up under his belly to make the beads follow the twist of his tight channel, he loses count entirely and barely notices the padded box closing in around him. He’ll leave the difficult things, like counting and remembering names, to the real men outside.

After him, the kitten arrives in much more of a state. A heat, to be precise. His tail curls protectively, a feeble attempt at modesty, but a handler’s boot crushes the wriggling thing underfoot and sends roaring pain up his spine. Grinding the boot winds him up like a clockwork toy, thrashing against his leash, but he cannot fight the barrage of sensations. The punishment takes beautiful effect, amplified by his heat, and the entire audience gets a show of futile resistance fading into instinct. His arousal, obvious between his legs and in his plaintive cries, helps the buyers picture him in their homes, a lewd centerpiece to their interior design. In a room with good acoustics, so that lovely voice won’t go to waste.

The usual announcement of the pet’s quality and provenance continues despite the show. Too fertile for his own good and proven capable of litters even for Betas. Other species were in the books too, and he had an impressive resume of broods carried for his previous masters. A true pity, to see such a high-quality breeder unclaimed and unaccounted for, begging in the streets for money and food. From half-starved delirium, he had even asked for ingredients to brew his own suppressants. But thanks to him, the authorities managed to uncover an entire ring of smugglers for the dangerous and illegal “medicine” as well as the recipe used. For his contribution to the state’s omega handling operations, he deserved only the best of homes, where the damage to his hormonal balance can be undone.

The auctioneer breaks the narrative briefly to ask his patrons whether the boy should be allowed one orgasm here on the stage, if he begs nicely. Even before the audience could answer, pointed ears perk up and the mewling gains a frantic edge. But the crowd answers no, and so one finger remains looped in a pair of rings in the base of the boy’s belly, forcing cramps that kill any possibility of relief. Just for the performance, they reduce the margin by which the prices climb, and the poor kitten teeters on the edge for as long as the transaction takes.

The bunny is next, dragged in by the ears. Unlike the others, he is clothed in more than just a collar, but the sheer undergarments accentuate rather than hide. He is smaller than the two before him, looking every bit the herbivore he’d been made to resemble. The boy flinches at the eyes raking over him, glittering at the sight of appetizing prey, and his squeaks do nothing to abate their desire. He tries to curl inward and turn his head away, but a fist in his hair forces his face up for the stage lights. Teary eyes blink furiously at the sudden brightness, soft ears twitching in agitation.

The handler pulls him up to a kneel. He yelps and scrambles to get his knees under him, but it’s a clumsy attempt and ultimately doesn’t matter. For under him is an upright phallus carefully lodged between his cheeks. The toe of a boot pushes his scant underwear aside, and down he slides the hand lets go and gravity takes over. His flat tummy rises slowly with the insertion, every inch disappearing between his thighs expanding into the bulge. Slim hips tremble as he reaches the base, legs folded to either side of him and body forcibly upright.

The handler is overwhelmingly close, warm breath tickling the back of the boy’s neck. Everyone in the room sees the shudder working through him when strong hands close over his ankles to bring them flush with his haunches. The order comes to cup his own chest, and he does so clumsily, confused at the prospect of touching himself. But he squeezes when he is told, clenching involuntarily at the spark of pleasure. The handler orders him to part his fingers, and he looks down to see the fabric of his lingerie stretched thin and slightly wet, clinging to the soft peak of his nipples between his fingers. He marvels briefly at the shade of pink, almost like candy, and wonders if it tasted as sweet as it looked. And that’s when the auctioneer reaches for the hair at his nape. And _squeezes._

There in front of rows of spectators, sipping their expensive drinks and twirling their numbered cards, he discovers what the artist had given him as a “final touch.” His thighs jerk by their own volition, pushing up as if to hop, like bunnies should. But the handlers’ hand on his ankles means he can barely lift an inch off the phallus beneath him. Each squeeze forces another jolt upward until the automation kicks in. Frantic sobs fill the air as he rubs himself raw, unable to stop bouncing in place and fucking his own hole. The auctioneer speaks between noisy squirts of slick onto the stage, extolling the versatility of such a feature. A fine lap accessory for the office, useful for times of heavy paperwork. A stuffed animal to take over the rhythm in bed after an exhausting day. 

It’s too much for his hips to keep up, and his darling panties are bunching up between his cheeks, but as with all pets, he has no right to stop. The artist’s work guarantees full control in the handler’s hands, until the last sign is raised and the hammer pronounces him sold. If his new master is merciful, he might be allowed to stop moving and rest until the shipping is complete, but the glint in his buyer’s eye promises no such reprieve. Extra coin is dropped for a larger box, just big enough so his body could continue as the invisible puppet strings command. The crowd is allowed one last look at his ripe bottom dripping and working circles around the phallus, puffy tail bounding over round cheeks, and the box is latched with soft cries still emanating from within.

A few placeholders from the reserves follow. Each finds quick purchase by those who could not afford true finery but still refuse to leave empty-handed. Gradually, they reach the last of their catalogue for this season. The patrons turn their programs to the final pages, ready to stake their claim over the last two, presumably the top of what the gallery had to offer.

A sweet, docile cow crawling slowly to center stage precisely fits that bill. There is no handler for this one, only the auctioneer casually tapping his toe where the boy is supposed to be. Bowed ears flop gently by his head, lowered in perfect posture. Just low enough to keep his eyes on the ground where they are supposed to be, but high enough for prospective masters to enjoy his pretty face. He is clearly accustomed and comfortable with staying on all fours, balancing the mass of his stuffed tummy without any trouble. His tail swishes occasionally but otherwise remains out of the way, allowing full view of his breeding hole and the ornate plug within. The subtle gold patches and the jewels adorning his nipples and cock just complete the image of an ideal omega, well-bred and fully submissive.

It’s a wonder that this perfect specimen could have ever misbehaved to the point of being abandoned, but the auctioneer makes his obligatory descriptions. Including quick promotion of the dairy farm where this canvas had originated. The omega himself is fairgrounds sweetheart, with several blue ribbons for his town festival appearances. While he has exhausted his own fertility and supply of milk, there is ample room to repurpose his womb and breasts for other contents. The taxidermist can be contacted regarding more shipments of the aphrodisiac gel keeping that stomach in shape. Which, by the way, offered heightened pleasure to any masters making use of the boy’s hole as well. When not in use, the pre-installed plug kept all incubated contents secure.

As expected, this fine creature finally prompts the elite bidders out of their waiting, and it is to one nobleman just shy of royalty that this omega is finally postmarked. Incredulous muttering fills the room, doubting that any creation could top the one just carted offstage. Just then, the lights dim for what the auctioneer whispers to be a fine surprise, kept under wraps throughout the exhibit to debut at this auction. With a whoosh, the curtains pull back, and the crowd falls into stunned silence.

Inside a magnificently wrought tank, a creature of legend swims languidly, scales iridescent with that familiar fire gold peeking through. As the surgically constructed merman swims, paying no mind to his audience, he reveals a chest dripping with jewels. They travel up the sides of his throat along with inked-in gills and conclude in shimmering trails from his ears. The auctioneer explains to his hushed audience that the omega had been found with legs irreparably damaged from an escape gone wrong. Unwanted by his owner, the boy was thrown to the waves and left to die, but the artist recognized treasure for what it was. With painstaking care, the boy’s legs were laced together and gradually encased in jelly, on which the scales were individually melded. The handler points out faint slits in the tail that allowed access to his hole and the gap between his thighs, though his cock would remain buried like the vestigial trait it is. A collective murmur arises when the boy takes a visible breath without raising his head from the water. A permanent water breathing enchantment, for a fully functional merman.

Signs raise in rapid succession, price climbing where even the auctioneer couldn’t hold back a smirk. Even after deductions to the artist, the gallery and its auction house are guaranteed tremendous profits from just this sale alone. For the first time in his career, the auctioneer witnesses one heretofore silent bidder shock the entire room with a ridiculous number, and that is as high as he can imagine the price going. The curtains close, and the tank is carefully wheeled away to join the other omegas waiting at collection.

Small fortunes change hands that day, but the purchases themselves see none of it. There is only the fire gold decorating their skin and the various jewels affixed, not for the boys’ enjoyment but that of their owners and all their guests. After all their earlier trouble with basic omega behavior, they should be grateful to be given a chance at all, let alone so much help in making sure they perform. But the artists are charitable souls, and as these boys are shipped away, the canvases for the next season are already underway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some side notes first before the fun stuff.
> 
> 1\. While the wealthy class is portrayed as a uniformly exploitative group here, that is hardly true of the real world or even of this fictional world. It is simply the exploitative ones that find their way into this chapter’s scenarios.
> 
> 2\. Additionally, the use of “puppy” or “kitten” is not to imply that any character is the age of an actual child. These words are meant as terms of endearment, like “baby” being an affectionate nickname for an adult, and this particular usage of the terms follows precedent within the relevant kink communities. I am willing to adjust the terminology if their usage is still too misleading, so please let me know if you feel they should be swapped for something more clear.
> 
> About future chapters.
> 
> Due to what was meant to be Chapter 6 being split in two, please shift any previous projections of chapter numbers up by one. An outline for the remaining requests can be found at [my new Tumblr.](https://shangrilad.tumblr.com/upcoming) I have chosen the order of the chapters to let related ideas flow naturally and to escalate towards the conclusion. Unfortunately, some earlier requesters will end up waiting longer, but I hope you understand why I'm saving the most brutal for last.
> 
> Thank you all for your suggestions and for helping me craft this story. Though this fic is now closed to new prompts, I am still taking ideas on how the upcoming chapters play out. I have taken the suggestion from one kind reader to set up proper social media. If you have any specific desires for the scenarios listed or some terrifying knowledge of plant and marine biology, don’t hesitate to let me know here or at Tumblr.


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